David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

A few days later they topped a hill and saw the Wood of the Dryads spreading like a green smudge on the horizon. The showers had blown off, and the sun was very bright.

“We’ll be safe once we reach the Wood,” the princess told them. “The legions won’t follow us there.”

“What’s to stop them?” Garion asked her.

“The treaty with the Dryads,” she said. “Don’t you know anything?”

Garion resented that.

“There’s no one about,” Hettar reported to Mister Wolf. “We can go now or wait for dark.”

“Let’s make a run for it,” Wolf said. “I’m getting tired of dodging patrols.” They started down the hill at a gallop toward the forest lying ahead of them.

There seemed to be none of the usual brushy margin which usually marked the transition from fields to woodlands. The trees simply began. When Wolf led them beneath those trees, the change was as abrupt as if they had suddenly gone inside a house. The Wood itself was a forest of incredible antiquity. The great oaks spread so broadly that the sky was almost never visible. The forest floor was mossy and cool, and there was very little undergrowth. It seemed to Garion that they were all quite tiny under the vast trees, and there was a strange, hushed quality about the wood. The air was very still, and there was a hum of insects and, from far overhead, a chorus of birdsong.

“Strange,” Durnik said, looking around, “I don’t see any sign of woodcutters.”

“Woodcutters?” Ce’Nedra gasped. “In here? They wouldn’t dare come into this wood.”

“The wood is inviolate, Durnik,” Mister Wolf explained. “The Borune family has a treaty with the Dryads. No one has touched a tree here for over three thousand years.”

“This is a curious place,” Mandorallen said, looking around a bit uncomfortably. “Me thinks I feel a presence here—a presence not altogether friendly.”

“The Wood is alive,” Ce’Nedra told him. “It doesn’t really like strangers—but don’t worry, Mandorallen, you’re safe as long as you’re with me.” She sounded quite smug about it.

“Are you sure the patrols won’t follow us?” Durnik asked Mister Wolf. “Jeebers knew we were coming here, after all, and I’m sure he told the Borunes.”

“The Borunes won’t violate their treaty with the Dryads,” Wolf assured him. “Not for any reason.”

“I’ve never known of a treaty a Tolnedran wouldn’t step around if it was to his advantage.” Silk spoke skeptically.

“This one is a bit different,” Wolf said. “The Dryads gave one of their princesses to a young noble of the House of Borune. She became the mother of the Emperor of the First Borune Dynasty. The fortunes of the Borunes are very intimately tied up with the treaty. They’re not going to gamble with that—not for any reason.”

“What exactly is a Dryad?” Garion asked. The strange sense of a presence, an awareness in the wood, made him want to talk to cover the oppressive, watchful silence.

“A small group,” Mister Wolf said. “Quite gentle. I’ve always rather liked them. They aren’t human, of course, but that’s not all that important.”

“I’m a Dryad,” Ce’Nedra said rather proudly.

Garion stared at her.

“Technically she’s right,” Wolf said. “The Dryad line seems to breed true on the female side of the House of Borune. That’s one of the things that keeps the family honest about the treaty—all those wives and mothers who’d pack up and leave if it were ever broken.”

“She looks human,” Garion objected, still staring at the princess.

“The Dryads are so closely related to humans that the differences are hardly significant,” Wolf said. “That probably explains why they didn’t go mad like the other monsters did when Torak cracked the world.”

“Monsters!” Ce’Nedra protested loudly.

“Your pardon, Princess,” Wolf apologized. “It’s an Ulgo term used to describe the non-humans who supported Gorim at Prolgu when he met with the God UL.”

“Do I look like a monster to you?” she demanded, tossing her head angrily.

“A poor choice of words, perhaps,” Wolf murmured. “Forgive me.”

“Monsters indeed!” Ce’Nedra fumed.

Wolf shrugged. “There’s a stream not far ahead, if I remember right. We’ll stop there and wait until word of our arrival reaches Queen Xantha. It’s not a good idea to go into the territory of the Dryads without the queen’s permission. They can get quite nasty if they’re provoked.”

“I thought you said they were gentle,” Durnik said.

“Within reason,” Wolf told him. “But it’s not a good idea to irritate people who communicate with trees when you’re in the middle of a forest. Unpleasant things have a way of happening.” He frowned. “That reminds me. You’d better stow your axe away out of sight. Dryads have strong feelings about axes—and fires. They’re most unreasonable about fire. We’ll have to keep our fires small and only for cooking.”

They rode in under a colossal oak beside a sparkling stream purling over mossy rocks, dismounted and set up their dun-colored tents. After they had eaten, Garion wandered around feeling bored. Mister Wolf was napping, and Silk had lured the others into a dice game. Aunt Pol had seated the Princess on a log and was stripping the purple dye from her hair.

“If you don’t have anything else to do, Garion,” she said, “why don’t you go bathe?”

“Bathe?” he asked. “Where?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a pool somewhere along the stream,” she said, carefully lathering Ce’Nedra’s hair.

“You want me to bathe in that water? Aren’t you afraid I’ll catch cold?”

“You’re a healthy boy, dear,” she told him, “but a very dirty one. Now go wash.”

Garion gave her a dark look and went to one of the packs for clean clothing, soap, and a towel. Then he stamped off upstream, grumbling at every step.

Once he was alone under the trees, he felt even more strongly that peculiar sense of being watched. It was not anything definable. There seemed to be nothing specific about it, but rather it felt as if the oaks themselves were aware of him and were passing information about his movements among themselves with a kind of vegetative communication he could not begin to understand. There seemed to be no menace in it, merely a kind of watchfulness.

Some distance from the tents he found a fairly large pool where the stream dropped in a waterfall from the rocks above. The water in the pool was very clear, and he could see the bright pebbles on the bottom and several large trout that eyed him warily. He tested the water with his hand and shuddered. He considered subterfuge—a quick splashing of water on his body and a bit of soap on the more obvious smudges but on reflection, he gave up the notion. Aunt Pol would settle for nothing less than a complete bath. He sighed bitterly and began to take oft his clothing.

The first shock was awful, but after a few minutes he found that he could bear it. In a short time it even became exhilarating. The waterfall provided a convenient means for rinsing off the soap, and before long he found that he was actually enjoying himself.

“You’re making an awful lot of noise,” Ce’Nedra said, standing on the bank and appraising him quite calmly.

Garion immediately dove to the bottom of the pool.

Unless one was a fish, however, one could hardly remain underwater indefinitely. After about a minute, he struggled to the surface and popped his head out of the water, gasping and sputtering.

“Whatever are you doing?” Ce’Nedra asked. She was wearing a short white tunic, sleeveless and belted at the waist, and open sandals with laces that crisscrossed her slender ankles and calves and tied just below her knees. She carried a towel in one hand.